BEEN THERE GOT THE T SHIRT

You would be amazed at some of the tasteless junk that people bring back from their travels. Souvenir sceptic  Sarah Tucker sorts out the wheat from the chaff

 I have a passion for rings. In fact, I’m fast running out of fingers on which to wear them. The present count is nine – rings, that is, not fingers. It all started in Canada during a visit to Halifax, Nova Scotia, when I wandered into a craft fair at which a woman was selling beaded rings in a variety of colours.

I bought one. Now I have rings from all around the globe. India, Prague, France, Italy, USA: not even darkest Chiswick has escaped my emptorious reach. It’s a kind of motivation tool: each time I have a book published, a beautiful ring is my reward. Of course, swanning around town like

an outcrop of Hatton Garden has its price. Again and again I am asked to tell the story behind each ring – where I bought, why I bought, from whom I bought and so on.  I have so many now, I have made them into a necklace tied together with a piece of fine leather given to me in Brazil by a guy I met on a beach.  The necklace is now too heavy to wear but I still do the rings. 

 

But I don’t mind. My collection is a pleasant and constant reminder of my diverse travels, like an indelible photo in the mind that instantly flashes up each time I look at my hands. Rarely, however, do I feel the need on a journey to purchase something just for the sake of it. Ring addiction aside – along with a penchant for First Nation Canadian sculpture (eagles, turtles, dancing bears mostly) – I am not a great one for souvenirs. They have an in-built tendency to disappoint, frequently catching the eye in their natural habitat while failing to look the part back home. No matter how boho you think you are Richmond Hill does a pale imitation of deepest Rajasthan.

 

Of course, some mementos are actually very practical. I always travel light,

buying my T-shirts on location, and these can double up as souvenirs. Mind you, I draw the line at the ‘I’ve been to Hayling Island’ variety, as I know how I react to other people wearing such stuff. The word ‘prat’ comes effortlessly to mind. This is probably why I find souvenir shops at airports, hotels, resorts and so on a complete waste of space, designed for those benighted folk whom nature has failed to bless with imagination. What sort of being, pray, invests in ‘Our Mother’ ear muffs at Lourdes, or that disgusting durian

fruit at Bangkok airport? Apparently, one can even buy the latter in crisp form. Mais pour qui, je demande?

 

As it happens, it’s my 10-year-old son who chooses the best souvenirs on our

travels. He has a thing for snow globes, but we’ve had so many of the bloomin’ things confiscated from our hand luggage at customs – they’re liquid, after all – that I try to keep him away from that counter. In any case, a polished, odd-shaped pebble rescued from a Cornish beach has far

greater meaning than a much reproduced painting of a view that is tired before you’ve handed over the credit card. When he was five, my son wrote a diary of his first safari. Badly spelt and painful to write – for it was heartless mother who made him bash it out on location – it is still the best souvenir of any journey I’ve ever shared with XXXX. With its wonderful and enchanting photos capturing a moment’s delight and awakening, its drawings of elephants that look more like lions and its short, spiky sentences

rejoicing in the lions’ indolent delight –well, ok, he didn’t quite put it like that –  it was a classic of the genre. Much better (and cheaper) than a stuffed fluffy tiger toy, of a kind that I could easily have bought at Hamleys.   Each holiday he still produces a diary, spelling much improved, photos more in focus and drawings much more recognizable but as delightful, and shares his voyage with his friends at school.   Last year he presented a talk on becoming a mahout, having learnt how to ride and control an elephant (guided needless to say by other mahouts), and has started a trend amongst his school friends on presenting their travel tales and diaries. 

 

Back in the adult world, one of my most unusual and inspired souvenirs came from a recent trip to California. Here I visited the Ojai Spa Resort, set in a stunning part of the state, 15 miles inland and a good 10 degrees hotter than LA. You can learn to surf, ride, play golf and generally do a multitude of things – or not, as the mood dictates –while the spa has a wide range of signature treatments designed to relax, detox and invigorate you, though preferably not all at the same time. Here too is the most enchanting, inspired and

original concept I’ve encountered in a very long time: the apothecary’s cottage. This place offers an art programme which includes silverpoint drawing and silk scarf painting, as well as the chance to create and christen your own personal scent of essential therapeutic oils. I called my heady mix of orange and ylang ylang Oomph– which is exactly what my stay at

the Ojai Spa gave me. One can also create a ‘mandala’ – a cosmic diagram reminding us of our relation to the infinite – for nterpretation by the amazing Rea, who I think is a white witch, albeit a lovely one.

 

Needless to say, my own drawing revealed me to be extremely creative (lots

of orange, blues and reds), in touch with my subconscious (plenty of black leggy spiders) and possessing a dark side (red mountains pointing upwards, as mountains of all colours generally do).  Mind you, my ex-husband could have told you that bit without the drawing.

 

Whatever, it’s a unique souvenir of a unique and soulful resort, literally leaving

you with the essence of the place and your time there. I shall return to Ojai for more sunshine and oomph. As for the ear muffs and crassly sloganed T-shirts, it’s a case of goodbye to all tat.